


Wake

by wynnebat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Post Nogitsune, Ritual Masturbation, consensual voyeurism, underage: 16/34
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the kanima, after the alpha pack, after the nogitsune, Stiles researches. </p><p>One of those times isn't like the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Ah yes, the first time I'm acknowledging that thing that happens at the end of 3B. Maybe someday I'll even get around to the current season. 
> 
> For the prompt "places" on my [Season of Kink](http://seasonofkink.dreamwidth.org/) [bingo card](http://wynnebat.dreamwidth.org/38552.html). I'm not quite sure if I'm doing the prompt right, but from what I understand, it's a fic where the place is close to/is the most important thing about the scene. 
> 
> Mentions of self hate/neglect, sexual situations involving a sentient magical tree, and a totally gratuitous Harry Potter reference.

After the kanima, after the alpha pack, after the nogitsune, Stiles researches.

One of those times isn't like the others.

There's a breathless determination buried in his chest as he reads a book a day, a couple dozen articles an hour, a history book an afternoon. He practically lives in Deaton's clinic. Deaton hadn't been keen on it, and Stiles isn't sure whether the frantic look on his face or the threat of using things he'd learned in the nogitsune's mind caused him to finally open the door to his basement and the library hidden under it.

Even three weeks later, Stiles' mind feels raw. It feels too open, too inviting to any parasite that's into human hosts. Stiles finds three more records of nogitsune being created and only doesn't panic because he's been in a state of panic for weeks. There are furies that can strip minds for memories they use to survive; there are mannias who can play emotions like fiddles as they lead everyone they encounter to their deaths.

There are werewolves that can stick their claws in his neck and take apart his mind. There's a man upstairs with more knowledge than Stiles can acquire in a decade, and Stiles still hasn't found what kind of powers Deaton might have. He knows he's becoming more paranoid by the day; he's not going to do anything about it. Almost everyone who's been possessed by a nogitsune has died, by the monster's hand or their own. Those who live become monsters themselves.

Four weeks in, Stiles has become fond of the last option.

He tells himself he's not going to do anything drastic, but there's a voice inside him that wants to eat him, and it's a memory but it's one that's got its claws inside his brain.

And— he knows the way his friends, his dad, even his teachers look at him. It's not guilt for the things he did that's taking him apart. Stiles knows enough about misplaced guilt. He's tired of it; his mother's death used up all the survivor's guilt he can bear. It's fear that grips him. It's the thought of not being able to protect himself if it happens again.

He's so weak, so human, and it's not funny anymore. Sarcasm isn't enough of a defense.

There are books missing from Deaton's library. Empty shelves sit without a layer of dust, books normally stacked tightly against one another have loose space. Every time Stiles leaves, Deaton remembers something else he doesn't want Stiles to know.

"It's dangerous," Deaton tells him. "Stiles... in your state, you could destroy more than just yourself. I'd rather that weren't an option."

It says something that Stiles doesn't disagree. Stiles chalks it up to being more sane than Deaton thinks he is, and decides to find out where Deaton lives when he empties this library of its resources.

Days later, he finds he doesn't have to.

There's a certain irony in trying to change himself. Stiles has never been utterly in love with himself; there have always been things he wants to change. But it's always just been wanting to be a couple inches taller, or look slightly more like Lydia's idea of a perfect man. He's not Jackson; he's never wanted to become another species just to make himself feel better. He's never had a reason—not loneliness, or illness, or abuse. Even Peter's offer just hadn't been enough.

Maybe it had just been a lack of ambition. Maybe it had been confidence. Stiles can't quite remember.

The nogitsune has cured him of both.

As close-lipped as Deaton has been, ages ago he left an avenue of being open to Stiles: the word spark.

It's not a technical term. Stiles can't find it in a single book, nor has anyone else ever said the word. He barely knows what it is, though he knows exactly what he wants it to be.

He wants to wrap mountain ash around himself like a cloak. He wants it to seep into his every pore, to keep away anyone who has a drop of power. (He wants to go back. He wants to be five years old and crawl into his mother's lap, and he wants her to tell him it's okay, that monsters live far away, in the realm of fairy tales.) He wants more than he knows exists. He wants to rip away the veil over his reality, to see what exactly the world holds.

God, he understands Peter Hale better than ever, and he wants to rip the understanding from his mind.

He wants power.

Deaton's books tell him there's power in him already, a human kind of power. His blood contains threads of the past. They link to his ancestors, his relatives, the entire human race. But it's not unique; everyone has blood. Semen is more powerful, he finds. In each drop, there's a thousand futures that could've been, a thousand children that may have lived. (All theoretically, because Stiles is on the verge of being too fucked up, and kids are the last thing on his mind.) And it's not as painful as bleeding himself dry.

He's decided what to do before he even closes the books.

Deaton watches as he returns them all to their spots, his expression clear of any trust. "I could stop you," he says.

"I'm not doing anything wrong," Stiles replies.

"You're not going to kill anyone."

"Nothing that drastic," Stiles agrees.

(Maybe. Human life is one thing; resurrection of something else is quite another. Is it truly drastic, to right a wrong?)

Deaton lets him pass.

Stiles stumbles as he climbs the concealed stairs. His head is light, vision spotted as he walks out into the sunlight. He'd thought it was still evening, but by the sun's streaks, it's midday. The sun is high in the sky, bright rays temporarily bringing black spots to Stiles' vision from. His Jeep sits at the back of the parking lot, in the most inconspicuous corner Stiles could find. His dad had tried to drag him out once; it hadn't gone well for either of them. Since then, Stiles has been on medical leave from school and his dad has been a frequent visitor to the liquor store.

There's just enough gas for him to drive to the edge of the preserve. On the way, Stiles stops at a diner and grabs something to eat so that he doesn't pass out during the hike. He's too close to finally finding closure to be stopped by something so human as nutrient deficiency.

A year ago, he would've been shocked by how white his face looks reflected in the glass windows of the diner. Two years ago, he would've been worried about falling sick like his mother. Now, Stiles owns his body again, but can't bring himself to worry about it, other than stressing through the agonizing wait until it betrays him again. The food he's brought is simple but hot, and it warms him to his toes, brings a little life back into his eyes. After weeks of living on cold sandwiches and snacks from the nearest convenience store, it's good.

Still, Stiles doesn't dally on his way. He scarfs down the meal in minutes, pays, and drives as close as the woods allow. From there, it's a familiar path to the nemeton. He'd been here in person, terrified out of his mind for his father's and friends' safety, and in his dreams. The nogitsune remembered the ancient tree all too well.

He comes upon its clearing as the day falls into late afternoon, still bright and hot, but bearable. The stump is wide enough for Stiles to lie down on it, and he does, closing his eyes and resting his head on the wood.

There's no echo of magic for him to feel. Not a whisper.

For a moment, he wonders if this is as far as he'll go. If his source of power is already long dead. It doesn't respond to him, nor his idle knocking.

But god, he's tired. It felt so good to have a few hours of hope. Stiles doesn't want to lose it yet. He has to try. Stiles starts with popping the button of his jeans, but in his position, he feels to vulnerable, too unaware. He opens his eyes to the empty forest and sits up. There's not much he can say if someone comes across him, but at least he'll be aware. The forest is quiet around him as he unzips his jeans, only the faint sound of birds in the distance competing with the sound of metal against metal.

It's not anywhere near cold outside, but Stiles still shivers as he tugs his jeans and boxers to his ankles. There's no mistaking what he's up to now. He can't remember the last time he's been this naked outside; maybe when he was a kid.

Stiles' cock is soft as it lies between his legs, not even responding to the thrum of the forbidden and unknown. For the first time, Stiles realizes he hasn't jacked off since the night one of his best friends died. It wasn't his fault—yet he remembers her blood, his hands, the blade. In his worse moments, it's a never-ending collage of memories. In his better ones, he still struggles to forget.

He didn't bother bringing lotion, so his hands are dry as he takes his cock in hand. It's a familiar action, more familiar than anything has been in the last couple weeks. As he begins to stroke himself, he tries to remember what used to turn him on.

And Stiles... can't. It's not even being outside that bothers him.

Somehow, he'd thought he'd be able to do this. He had an image of himself in his head, of a horny teenager with a libido happy enough to have sex with a girl he barely knows in an insane asylum. But that's not him, not anymore.

He cycles through fantasies: a nameless girl sucking him off, stolen glimpses of Danny in the locker room—and, guiltily, of Jackson, too, and Lydia's hair still perfect as she rides him, and Malia's perky breasts. When those don't work, he thinks of deeper ones, things he'd never speak of, like Jackson pushing him against a wall, Derek hot and hard against him... and Peter. Just Peter. Just his name used to be enough for Stiles' guilty id to rev up. Peter, bringing him to his feet by his chin. Peter, his mouth so close to Stiles' bare wrist. Peter, leaning over him as Stiles finds a clue in a dusty book, his chest nearly touching Stiles' back.

"Dammit," he says, the words almost a sob. He's mostly hard just from the sensation, from the Pavlovian anticipation of release, but it's not enjoyable. Stiles clenches his eyes closed and tries to remember what pleasure used to feel like.

When he opens his eyes, there's a familiar figure walking towards the nemeton. Stiles can see him through the trees, sunlight revealing Peter's intrigued expression, broad shoulders, easy stride. It's as if he was called straight from Stiles' fantasy. But Stiles' fantasies are much less gritty than reality, so he says, "Stop there."

Peter takes a few steps closer and leans against a tree a few yards away from the nemeton, eyeing Stiles from across the clearing. "I was expecting a few things when I saw you enter the forest, but this wasn't on the list."

It's hard to be prepared for Peter, but Stiles is used to werewolves popping up out of nowhere. Without taking his eyes off of Peter, he leans down, reaching for his jeans. From one of the front pockets he grasps a handful of mountain ash and throws it in the air.

Peter's eyes are instantly blue, his body halfway turned to run.

Stiles snorts. If only the rest of the Beacon Hills pack had half as much self-preservation instinct as Peter. Allison might not have died, then. The mountain ash falls all around the nemeton in a perfect circle, not a speck flying at Peter. "I'm not planning to share the nemeton's power," Stiles tells him.

"I don't want it anyway," Peter replies. But there's a want behind his eyes, a lust that Stiles associates with power. It's got a new association, now, as Peter's eyes lower to Stiles' cock.

Stiles follows Peter's gaze down at his blasted cock, still loosely held in his hand, and gone soft in his inattention. He knows he can get Peter to leave. Peter's got to have some kind of motives, though Stiles knows for a fact Peter will get nothing from the ritual. It's on the tip of his tongue: _fuck off, thanks._

If he says it, Peter will leave.

That's probably why he doesn't.

Peter doesn't say a word as Stiles begins to stroke himself. Maybe he senses how close Stiles is to just saying the words, to this being just that bit too much. He's barely touched another person in weeks; even from those couple yards away, this is the closest intimacy he's had since Eichen.

And— "I fucked your daughter," Stiles tells him, just in case Peter doesn't already know. He's not sure what he's doing. Trying to scare Peter off, maybe. Or just making another bad decision in a long line of them, because he hasn't seen Malia much since, but it's still true. It could make this all just dirty enough that Peter would go away. Peter cares about little, but family's occasionally on his moral compass.

After a long moment, Peter says, "I can forgive that. Teenagers are prone to thinking with their dicks. You're not worse than Derek. Or Scott."

"I don't want your forgiveness," Stiles bites out, giving his cock a hard tug. Fuck, he doesn't want anyone's forgiveness. He doesn't need it.

"What _do_ you want?"

Power, Stiles almost says, but that's not the right answer. Safety.

 _You_ rests on the tips of his lips. He's not sure how he wants Peter, nor how Peter wants to be had, but it's something.

Stiles isn't even surprised when he realizes he's fully hard. What's surprising is the flecks of mountain ash on his hands, a few on his cock, pressing into his skin as dark spots. He lets them remind him of things he can do. Lets them say: _I've defeated a kanima, werewolves, humans—I can take you, the broken stump that you are_. And, maybe: _I need you, even so_.

Peter's eyes flicker between shades of blue as Stiles strokes himself, his body responding like it's always had. To Peter's body, to his presence, to his mind. It has the comfort of the familiar despite the danger, despite everything. Peter's not a good person. Stiles can't remember what it feels like to care.

"Let me see you," Stiles says, his breath just a notch too quick.

Peter doesn't even pretend to wonder at his meaning. His hand stumbles against the zipper of his pants and Stiles thinks he might see a claw hook into the latch to tug it down. He pulls his cock from its cradle against his left thigh, lets Stiles just take it in for a long moment before he begins to stroke, his pace much faster than Stiles'.

"Show-off."

"You don't need to be jealous," Peter replies.

And that so wasn't Stiles' point, but Stiles is quickly distracted. He's seen plenty of dicks; after a decade of friendship, he's completely desensitized to Scott's dick, and locker rooms aren't anywhere private. But never has he had such a thrum of want go through him, almost like an orgasm, almost like a claim. He wants to take it: in his hand, his mouth, his ass. Wants to watch Peter do the same thing with his own.

Stiles isn't worried about not being able to come. He thinks he could do it now, just from imagining Peter's strong fingers on his cock, setting the pace to his own. Running out of fantasies, of things he wants to do to Peter, feels like a lost dream. He waits, just barely, his cock a mess of pre-come and want, and is rewarded by the soft sound Peter makes as he comes.

"Come, Stiles," Peter urges, his eyes half closed, his voice rough with want. There's a streak of come across his fingers that Stiles wants to lick off. Still, Stiles has found he isn't into being ordered around.

"Fuck you," Stiles replies, and holds off for a full minute out of spite.

But Peter's smirk has too much in common with a grin, and it's the last thing Stiles sees before his orgasm sweeps through him.

He feels light, like his body's no longer content to be a vessel for his mind, like he can slip away in an instant.

Stiles remembers too late that he'd meant to come onto the stump of the nemeton, but when he reaches to scoop whatever liquid he can reach, there's already a vine reaching for it. Stiles lets it take it, lets the bark under his fingers come alive. He lets the mountain ash disperse. He lets the nemeton free.

There are vines crawling between his fingers and his legs, slowly widening as they become thick branches. Slowly, he begins to rise into the air, a sea of growth around him. The nemeton isn't a stump any longer. And neither is Stiles alone; he will never be alone again.

There's still something in his mind, but it's not something Stiles minds. The nemeton isn't sentient, not truly, and its desires are only to grow and prosper and protect itself from ever becoming a stump again. He can understand it. Likewise, it tells him in its own way that he'll never be violated again. He'll be afraid, but he'll never be powerless, an ancient voice assures him without words. It talks in pictures and feelings, and Stiles sends his consent in the form of safety, his mother's earrings, his father's gun.

They're bound, for good and for ill.

Each breath it breathes, he feels.

Each second it lives, he survives.

Each piece of ground its roots cover, he rules.

And to think, it had been Peter with all the plans of domination. It can help him burn the world, just as Deaton fears. It can teach him to protect himself. As always, its power comes with a price, but it's his own blood that Stiles will have to pay, his own actions to help clear the tree's long-disused magical pathways. It's his decision.

When he asks, the branches set him onto the ground, leaving only one piece of wood in his hand. Stiles has played enough video games to recognize it as a staff.

"Thank you," Stiles tells the tree. It doesn't feel like enough, so he pats its trunk companionably. For all the shit that's come from it, there's a feeling of possessiveness inside his chest. He rose it from nearly nothing; he made it what it is. He gave it life.

One of the branches curls around his fingers for a moment before it releases him completely. Stiles knows he'll be back soon, but for now he hastily pulls up and zips up his clothes, and turns toward Peter.

"Is your downward spiral finally complete?" Peter asks, coming out of nowhere as Stiles begins the trek back to town. "You're much less interesting when you kill people. It's such a pity."

Stiles glares at him, but he's too content to give it justice. He blames it on the tree. And on the fact that Peter's one of the few people who didn't look at him with pity, nor try to stop his quest for protection. A couple steps and he's at Peter's side, being pulled in for a heady kiss. Peter's cock soft and wet against Stiles' thigh. He feels like a teenager again, messing around with a guy his dad wouldn't approve of. It's good.

"It's done," Stiles agrees. "Though I think I replaced it with tree-babysitting duty for the rest of my life, so I'm not sure how good of a judge of sanity I am anymore."

"I can help you with that," Peter replies, lips twitching at his own words. Stiles grins, and it's awkward and strange and too heartfelt by far. It's sinking in, now, just how bad it had gotten in the weeks since the nogitsune. Peter's hand is gentle as he rubs Stiles' shoulder in response.

But Stiles isn't about to talk about emotions with the smell of come still in the air, so instead he says, "Help me with this thing instead, because I have no idea what it is." He waves the staff. It's quite big, even if it feels perfect in his hand.

"It's quite obvious." There's a curl of a smile on Peter's lips and amusement in his eyes as he says, "You're a wizard, Stiles."

Stiles hits him with his staff.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Complete; no sequel planned.


End file.
